Recipe for Disaster
by DragonMaster65
Summary: [12 Days of Ficmas] There is a time and place for middle-of-the-night phone calls and emergency dead drop pickups. That time was not "when you've run out of gluten free flour" and the place was certainly not "outside the local greengrocers." [Buckynat] [Oneshot]


**A/N:** **This is beyond crack-tastic. I'm fully here for going back to Mid-2012 where it's fun to just goof off with the MCU characters (esp when all the current stuff has me agonizing over my hapless darlings)**

 **So. A cracky, fluffy ficlet for mindless consumption!**

 **Prompt: You called me at two in the morning insisting that I come over and help you bake Christmas cookies for the party tomorrow because you forgot to make them earlier and now need help**

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Assassins don't get holidays. It comes with the territory of secrecy and due care that is necessary to prevent oneself from being stabbed in the back - metaphorically or otherwise. One doesn't broadcast one's location in order to get a package from some caring family members or cards from vague acquaintances. Maybe your handler remembers to wish you a half-hearted "Happy Holidays" when passing off a new contract. More than likely the holidays pass with only the irritation of there being more lights on than usual on the street.

That all being said, it delighted Natasha to no end to see a familiar number on the other end of her burner phone. "Stark," she greeted just after the third ring. It didn't do to answer a call from Tony too fast. He'd start expecting it and getting snippy if - lord forbid - you happened to be in the middle of something important then.

Barnes chuckled tinnily in her ear. "Not exactly."

Natasha sat up. A slow motion curled the corner of her lips. "Not at all." She twisted away from her partner across the table and lifted a finger. After stepping away to stand by coat check, Natasha asked "To what do I owe the pleasure? And how did _you_ get access Stark's line?"

"What? There were telephones in the forties. I know how to dial out," Barnes protested.

"I'm more interested in how you got into his 'neigh impregnable' fortress, but I really shouldn't ask, should I?" They shared a laugh.

Static crackled as Barnes shifted the phone from one ear to another. The faint whir of his arm's mechanics faded as well. "I'm not stopping you from a job, am I?" he pressed. That was Barnes. Always focused on what was proper.

Natasha clicked her tongue and glared at a passing busboy who stepped too close to her. "It's turning out to be a waste of time. Don't worry about it," she said.

"Good. I've got a more important mission for you."

She had her coat in hand less than a minute later, leaving the bill for her useless contact to pick up.

There is a time and place for middle-of-the-night phone calls and emergency dead drop pickups. That time was not "when you've run out of gluten free flour" and the place was _certainly_ not "outside the local greengrocers." Yet Natasha still went along with Barnes' horrific request, picking the lock and leaving with a small mountain's worth of baking supplies in her napsack.

When she swiped into the Avenger tower, her smile from earlier had since twisted down. One very bleary-eyed Happy attempted to greet her. His words were more or less engulfed by the yawn that split his mouth instead.

"Good evening to you, too," Natasha threw over her shoulder before stepping into the elevator. Barnes had texted her a double-digit number after sending over his list of mission critical supplies which she could only assume was the floor he'd wormed his way onto. She'd expected it to be the same as Steve's, but with Wanda on one half and Vision choosing a section of closets to hover in when he felt like "resting," that had left little room for briefly visiting fugitives.

The once-pristine kitchen here was now being horrifically abused by someone who had last baked before there had been a space program. Flour and powdered sugar coated most, if not all, of the surfaces. Even from the elevator Natasha could spot smudges of softened butter on the microwave door, on the sink, and on the oven handle.

Perhaps the only redeeming factor was observing the truly hysterical sight of Barnes - stern expression at the ready - wearing a pair of novelty moose oven mitts as he removed a tray of cookies from the oven.

"You know they built that thing to withstand the heat of a burning building, right?" Natasha teased. Barnes cursed and dropped the baking sheet onto the stovetop with a clatter.

He wrapped Natasha in a one-armed hug and tossed the pair of mitts at her when she squirmed away. "It's a habit," he insisted. "And at least a little bit of me'll still burn. So if it's alright with you, I'll bear on the side of caution."

The requisitioned goods joined the dwindling pile of raw materials, and Barnes let out a sigh as he considered the catastrophe in front of them. "I really don't know how I got myself into this," he breathed.

Natasha picked up a sheet of paper with notes in a mixture of languages. About half of the baked goods were checked off. Natasha noted now that the dining table was a triage of cooling and bagged cookies. There were still over eight types still to go, barring any more cross-outs like the one that had struck out hand-pressed spritzes.

"You're in deep, Barnes," Natasha said with a low whistle.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Need help?"

"... Also yeah."

"Get me an apron. One that _doesn't_ have a moose on it, preferably."

Maybe a pair of assassins could have a bit of a holiday just this once.

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 **A/N: Day 5 of the "12 Days of Ficmas!" This is a shortfic event that I'm running on my profile leading up to Xmas 2018. There are fics from multiple fandoms, so please check out my profile for more!**


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